His and Hers
by themalfoyheir
Summary: There are two sides of the bed. And so does war. DHr.


**a/n: hi! another oneshot :):) so, this one was inspired by attica's Last Kiss. i mean, when i finished reading it, i was just _moved_? idk and well, this idea came to me. **

**i dedicate this to mj (ifyoureadthispleaseknowthatiloveyousomuch) and to my twin, gela (thanksfortheencouragementiloveyou)!**

 **Disclaimer: Harry Potter is JKR's, not mine.**

* * *

He woke up to an empty bed and a bundle of cold sheets.

Reaching out, his hand confirmed his thoughts. Not a trace of warmth on it, the right side of the bed was empty. _Her_ side of the bed was empty.

Draco turned his head to the left and looked at the small clock she insisted be placed on their bedside table. 3:23 in the morning, it read. He decided that he should be sleeping but thought better of it. Besides, barely anyone gets much sleep these days. They're all scared to close their eyes for fear of never opening them again.

It was still bloody early—very much so—and normal people wouldn't have thought to get up in the wee hours of the day. Normal people would even want to sleep in. It's a Sunday, after all. No work, no school. A designated rest day for everyone. Right?

Not bloody likely. He snorted. Since when have they been just "normal" people?

He heaved a sigh and sat up. He might as well find out where Granger ran off to, now that he's awake. So, standing up, he made his way toward the door, opened it, and peeked outside.

Darkness. Not a single soul in sight. No one's mad enough to get up at this time, after all.

He slowly went down the dark halls, seeing a ray of light escaping from the small crack in the door leading to the kitchens. It was open wide enough for him to be able to peek in on the occupants of the room. And peek in, he did.

It was Potter and Granger.

They were settled in a small conjured table at the middle of the room, with scattered parchments and stacks of books on it. Potter and Granger are seated across each other, heads slightly down in what seemed to be a heated discussion. Their voices floated all over the space, vacant except for them—and Draco, of course. He could hear the serious tones of their dialogue and, with a quick look inside, realized that they had been talking about the raid that's about to happen in a few hours. A few Order members including himself will be going on a mission. They were tipped off that there are fugitives and other civilians far up north and they were to help get them to safety, all the while trying to find out what the Dark Lord's next move will be. Definitely not as easy as it sounds seeing as Death Eaters roamed every possible route in the country. It's a miracle, really, that they have managed to stay hidden this long.

He stifled a sigh, aware that any kind of sound will immediately be heard by the other two. Draco didn't want to be accused of eavesdropping. No, that is certainly quite a juvenile act; one that is far below a Malfoy's proprieties. A Weasley's maybe, but definitely not a Malfoy's. He was merely . . . waiting for the right opportunity to announce his presence. Yes, that's it. It's not his fault they were talking too loud that he can't help hearing them.

Right.

"Harry."

The pained sound of Granger's voice drew him out of his musings. Draco carefully inched closer to the door to hear better.

"Harry, I can't do it anymore." She looked close to tears. That didn't dwell nicely in his gut.

"Hermione? Are you okay?" Potter asked with a hint of worry. "What are you talking about?"

Her voice is thick with emotion, and she has her back toward him, but Draco can see that her body is wracked with trembles and violent shudders.

He frowned. What was happening?

"Harry. It's Draco. He . . . I can't lose him, Harry. I won't be able to take it." She's crying freely now, he can tell by the way her sniffles interrupted her sentence in broken intervals. "There is a _war_ going on, and I know people die in it all the time; it's practically inevitable."

Her sobs are getting louder now and it's like someone gutted him. He hated tears, hated it because it's a sign of weakness. It is something enemies will use against you to gain the upper hand, to _destroy_. Malfoys and weakness just don't fit. It had been drilled into his head ever since he was old enough to talk. But what he hates even more is when the tears are hers. Because that would mean she's not as strong as she lets on. And he knows she's not, he knows her well enough—she _trusted him enough_ to let her guard down—so he knows that behind that Gryffindor bravado is a scared girl who was forced to grow up too soon. But for her to let someone else see her in such a state? This, whatever it is that's on her mind, must be wrecking her inside.

And it's _him_. She's crying and sobbing and worrying and _hurtinghurtinghurting_ for him.

A wave of nausea so strong rolled over him that he had to put a hand on the wall in front of him to keep his body steady.

"But," she continued, despite her hiccups and heavy inhales, "My parents are gone. Harry, they're gone! I have no family left. And I know I have you, and yes I have Ron, too, but it's just not the same. But then he came and I just . . . It's him, Harry. He's _it_ for me."

A stunned silence reverberated in the room following her confession. For what felt like eons later, a light shuffling can be heard inside. Potter might have moved beside her, it seems like something he would do as he was not comfortable in emotional encounters like this. He might have taken Granger and enveloped him in an undoubtedly awkward hug, hesitantly combing through her curls in what must be a soothing manner. Potter might have held her, rocking her side to side, shushing her whimpers, not having the faintest clue on what to do or say next.

Draco would have snorted if he wasn't baffled by how much her words severely affected him. They bounced in the crevices of his chest and echoed all over the corners of his mind. Her words sparked his blood and thawed on his iced veins.

"Hermione," Potter began tentatively, "What do you want to do about it, then?"

For a while, Granger said nothing. He was almost positive that it would be the end of their conversation when she spoke.

"I want him to be safe. Far away from here. Somewhere no one will know who he is, somewhere no one will know what role he played or how he is connected to everything. Somewhere he is, and will remain, unknown. Like . . . like my parents."

Draco froze.

 _No._

Distantly, he heard the loud screeching of a chair being scraped back and Potter's aghast "Hermione, you can't!" but he can't focus on anything.

Shock and betrayal coursed through him, burning and painful and it _hurtshurtshurts_ and he needs to get out of here but his lungs felt shriveled up and every breath is painful and it's like someone _diffindo_ 'd his head and goddammit everything is red and black at the same time and just . . . _f u c k_ .

He can't believe she would do that. Can't believe she would even think to do that. Because _godfuckingdamnit_ he didn't need her protection. He wants to be involved, he wants to act, he wants—needs—to do something!

"You can't do that to him, Hermione! I may not know him beyond his sneers and arrogance but I know that he wouldn't take this lightly. Hell, I don't think he would even consider it! Hermione, you can't decide this matter by yourself because it will affect him, too. You're the one who's constantly pushing and fighting for fairness and justice, but don't you think he has the _right_ to control his own life?"

Her body was rigid and full of tension but still, she pushed on.

"No, Harry, listen to me!" There was a hint of panic and desperation colouring her voice now. "He has been marked a traitor by the other side! There's a sodding price on his head, and I don't doubt that they want his _blood_ spilled all over their precious Pureblood feet! And—and I can't let that happen, alright?"

"But, Hermione—"

Granger's voice was shrill when she cut him off. "Especially _now_. Some Death Eaters from the last raid saw how he took the curse aimed for me! They probably put two and two together. _Can't you see, Harry?_ Draco's in danger enough already, but with him involved with Harry Potter's Mudblood best friend? I don't imagine they'll take it with open arms."

His brain is muddled and there was a chasm in his chest right then, eating his organs away one by one, draining his blood and slurping at his veins. A whirlwind of mammoths are stomping and trudging and pounding in his stomach, and Draco wondered if the Cruciatus hurt less. Maybe it does, maybe this pain is equivalent to a thousand fucking Cruciatus centered in his t—

She wants to _Obliviate_ him? Really? For what reason? She thinks she can fucking protect _him_ from the horrors and repercussions of the war? It is a fucking war! People die in it, people die fighting for it, people die fighting against it. Even the innocents pay for soldiers' sins! And he's not exactly innocent, is he? He won't be exempted in it all, and not even his fucking last name would save him from it. Hell, his last name is the _reason_ he's deeply involved in this shite!

Who the fuck does she think she is to decide these matters for him?

Fucking Granger. Fucking omniscient-wanna be, annoying little swot who keeps on poking her goddamn nose into his fucking life.

He lo— _cares_ for her, yes, but this is taking it too far.

". . . can't lose him, Harry."

Enough. He can't stand this anymore. It's all bloody ridiculous.

Draco harshly slapped his palm at the door of the kitchens, barging inside with a blank expression. The two of them jumped up in surprise. Potter didn't look at him, but Granger did. Her hair is even wilder than usual, full of tangles and knots, her nose is red and runny, and her eyes are swollen.

He kept his face neutral, but he knows she can see how hard he's clenching his jaw, or the slight crease in his brows. He didn't spare the other man a glance and chose to direct his gaze on the witch instead.

Potter, thank Merlin, noticed the tension and must have guessed what's going on so he stood up and collected the rolls of parchments and books.

"Think about what I said, 'Mione. Good night." He walked over and placed a kiss on her forehead. And, with a terse nod in his direction, Potter turned and left.

A suffocating silence blanketed the room once more. He didn't have to tell her that he heard everything. She already knows.

"Draco, look, I—" Granger started.

"Shut up."

His voice is chilled and she looked just the slightest bit hurt by his tone. But guess what? He didn't give a fuck.

"Since when did you get to have the authority to decide things for me?"

"I—"

"So that's it, then? You're planning on erasing my memories to send me to Merlin knows where? Under a false identity?"

He's pacing, and he was losing his composure fast but he doesn't fucking _care_ because he needs to get this off his chest before he explodes.

"When are you going to do it? Are you planning to catch me unawares? Maybe when I'm asleep? Or . . . maybe when I kip after we fuck?"

She flinched at that but remained silent, still.

He needed answers. "So my memories are to be erased, _without my permission_ , just because you've got this utterly idiotic notion in your head to what? To protect me?"

Not a sound came from her.

 _"Fucking answer me, Granger. Damn it!"_

She's crying again, fuck, why the hell can't she stop crying?

"Granger, answer m—"

"Because I don't want to lose you!" She shrieked. "Because every damn time we're sleeping, I wonder if it will be the last time you will ever hold me! Because I know you're in a lot of danger already, but you're still risking _so much_ by just being with me. Because my thoughts won't let me rest every time you're out on a mission. Because I can't help but imagine that one day, it will be _you_ and _your name_ I'm going to hear in that godforsaken radio! Because . . . because," she choked out, "I'm scared."

And then the next moment, he's there beside her, crushing her into his chest, and rocking her sobbing frame side to side. What was left of his tattered heart broke at the sight of his brave witch breaking down and admitting that she's not as strong as everybody thinks.

Because if she, of all people, can't handle everything that's going on, then who can?

"Don't cry, love. Shh, stop crying." He whispered softly, brushing her sticky curls away from her face. Draco placed his hands at the sides of her face and said, "Granger, look at me. _Hermione_ , come on, look at me."

She opened her eyes and focused them on his, beautiful brown orbs still glazed with tears. But there's something in there too. Fear, worry, pain, and . . .

Love?

The chasm in his chest is back—but for an entirely different reason.

"I'm going to say this just once so better listen to me, alright?" He waited for her to nod before continuing. "This plan of yours? It's bullshite. I'm not going to agree to it. You know why?" This time, he didn't need to wait for her to respond before pushing on. "Because I am never, _never_ leaving your side. Hear that? They can hex and jinx and curse me all the fuck they want but I am going to stay and fight beside you. I am going to stay, and I am going to fight, and _we_ are going to win this bloody war. Together. Because Granger? You're _it_ for me, too."

Why the fuck is she crying again? Did he say something wro—

 _"I love you."_

He stared at her blankly. Draco searched her eyes intently for any signs of insincerity but there was none. Just a brief flash of worry but it was instantly gone and a determined purse of her lips and a stubborn jut of her jaw took place.

He kissed her.

He kissed her because he didn't know if he had the courage to say it back. He kissed her because he knows that she knows that his actions show so much _more_ than his words possibly can. He poured every unspoken emotion into that single kiss, filling it with beautiful promises and cherished vows.

He kissed her because he . . . loved her. And maybe he can't say it yet, but looking into the unmistakable happiness in her eyes, he thinks that maybe, maybe it's enough for now.

"Promise me," she breathed in raggedly, "Promise me that when all of this is over, there will still be an us. Promise me that after everything, I'll still be _it_ for you. Promise me, Draco, just . . . please."

He kissed her one last time and said _"Always,"_ because he knows with every fiber of his being that this is the one promise that he can keep.

So after another chaste kiss, Draco stood up and picked Hermione up bridal style, ignoring her protests and flailing limbs. He slowly retraced his route back to their room, savouring the feel of his witch in his arms.

When they got there, he gently placed her on the bed and tucked the sheets around her. Then he silently slipped in beside her and wrapped his arms around her body once more, pulling her close to him.

There they lay, with his arms around her, her dainty hands clutching his chest, his lips pressed into her wild mane, her face in the crook of his neck.

Tonight, they chose to forget about bed divisions. There are no 'his' and 'her' sides, no left and right, no boundaries separating them, no invisible line severing their entwined bodies.

And in that room, at the Order's safe house, at 12 Grimmauld Place, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger fell asleep in the middle of their bed.

* * *

He woke up to an empty bed and a bundle of cold sheets.

Reaching out, his hand confirmed his thoughts. Not a trace of warmth on it, the right side of the bed was empty. _Her_ side of the bed was empty.

He had damned himself to hope, yet again.

Ignoring the faint pang in his chest as if it would make it go away, Draco turned his head to the left and looked at the small clock she insisted be placed on their bedside table. 3:23 in the morning, it read. He had about a couple hours of shuteye before his dreams woke him up.

He didn't bother sitting up. In fact, he hardly ever left his—their—room these days except for when he needed to eat. And even then, he mostly barked orders at his house elf to fetch it for him.

Draco knew it would piss her off—she had been very adamant about her spew shite back at Hogwarts—but somehow, he could hardly bring himself to care.

Not anymore.

He looked back at the clock again. Twenty eight minutes past three. May 2nd.

Has it really been three years already?

Staring blankly at the ceiling, he wondered where all those years had gone. He thought about hollow victories and broken promises. For the first time in a long time, Draco allowed himself to think and ponder and contemplate all the _what ifs_ and _if onlys_ and _might haves_ and _could've beens_ in his pathetic existence.

 _What if_ he had been more careful? More cautious?

 _If only_ he had been there beside her.

He _might have_ asked her to marry him. Or, if he was still too much of a coward to do that, ask her to move in with him, at the very least. Get his own flat somewhere in Muggle London, perhaps? Merlin forbid he get bombarded with pesky reporters and pureblood elitists who would most certainly sneer at him for 'sullying himself'. Returning to the Manor is out of the question, of course. Not after that hypocritic bastard made it his very own madhouse. No, he would get a place of his own and then ask Granger to live with him. They had shared a room and a bed in Grimmauld Place, anyway, so it's not like they'll be doing anything new.

Then, they _could have been_ married after a year or two. Right now, they could have been enjoying their honeymoon in a tropical island like, say, Palau.

Too bad none of those happened. _How very . . . unfortunate, indeed_. Draco gave a wry chuckle.

At the corner of his eye, he could see a pillow lying next to his.

 _Her_ pillow.

But then there it was, resting innocently on _her_ side of the bed, unused and forgotten.

He didn't have the courage to remove it. He never had the courage. After all, she was the Gryffindor in their twisted relationship, not him.

Draco was about to roll over to his side, to face away from _her_ , when a light crinkling noise hit his ears. There was an uncomfortable object digging into his side, and with a little struggle, he sat up and plucked it free.

There, in his hand, is an old piece of parchment. Worn at the sides, torn at some edges, too frail from having been folded and unfolded numerous times. Yes, it was a simple scrap of paper, but at that moment, Draco can't help but think he was holding his world at the palm of his shaking hands.

For in that old piece of parchment, a letter is written.

The words have faded, somehow, and there are large blots of ink everywhere, as if the writer was crying while making it.

Knowing her, he's almost certain she did.

Draco suddenly _can'tseecan'thearcan'tthink_ and his hands are shaking so fucking bad that he dropped her letter but then he thought, that's okay because I've got it memorized, anyway and _godfuckingdamnit_ he probably fell asleep last night clutching that letter in his chest like a fucking ninny, crying for his mummy—

His thoughts were running wild, memories flashing behind his closed eyes _, her laugh her smile her adorable scowl her annoying habit of insisting she's always right her little quirks that piss him off the way she put her hands on her hips when she's about to berate him for something he did the furrow between her brows that tells him she's concentrated on something her tears her sobs the way she held him when Narcissa died her hands that always fit in his own like a fucking jigsaw the way she alwaysalwaysalways seemed to know what he feels even if he hasn't voiced it out loud—_

A sharp pain in his palms made him realize that he had clenched his fists so tight, causing his nails to leave crescent-shaped marks on his skin, but that's alright, he thinks, because the pain in his hands are better than the violent pricks in his chest, so he dug his nails _deeperdeeperdeeper_ and clenched his fists _tightertightertighter_. But his lungs are shriveled up again and his vision turned black and red and green and blue and yellow and all the colors at once, until it turned into the exact shade of brown in her eyes and it _s_ because he just wants to see those irises again.

Just one more time.

Her letter lay forgotten somewhere under the bed, but he didn't give a shite because the words are swimming in his brain right now, he didn't need to read it to know what it says. It's practically _engraved_ in his fucking scorched and rotten soul.

And there, in his room, in his flat in Muggle London, at forty six minutes past three in the morning, on May 2nd, Draco Malfoy broke down.

 _Dear Draco,_

 _If you're reading this letter, that must have meant I didn't make it. I asked Harry to give you this when I . . ._

* * *

~e n d


End file.
